


Not Saying Goodbye

by aeli_kindara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-20
Updated: 2006-06-20
Packaged: 2019-02-16 02:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13044999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeli_kindara/pseuds/aeli_kindara
Summary: On Sam's last day at home, Dean drifts a little, cleans the weaponry, entirely ignores the hypothetical's existence, and does his best not to notice that he doesn't say goodbye.





	Not Saying Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I watched S1 of Supernatural and wrote a bunch of fic. Then I wandered away for ten years. Now I'm reposting it I guess.

Neither of them says goodbye. 

There’s no goodbye to give, really, because Sam’s not leaving, Sam can’t leave, there’s no life without Sam to anticipate because life without Sam doesn’t exist. Even if it did, goodbye wouldn’t work, because there’s nothing good about it.

It’s as simple as that.

In the morning, it’s breakfast as usual, same old instant oatmeal and one apple each, a bit bruised. No big deal, though Dean can’t help but think if he were on his own, he’d _use_ those credit cards and get himself some proper breakfast. Dad’s too traditional like that. Not that Dean’d fight him about it — it’s stupid anyway. That’s the difference between Dean and Sam. If Sam noticed a thing about what he ate every morning, he and Dad would probably have already yelled themselves hoarse about it a dozen times or more. That’s Sam for you, arguing over every stupid little point. Like he’s a lawyer or something.

Dad surfs the net after breakfast, looking for something new they can go after. Sam disappears to his and Dean’s room, the room that’d be just Dean’s if they were going to stay another night — and he knows that, understands it, but still can’t quite wrap his mind around it. Then again, he doesn’t have to. That room is his and Sam’s, always will be. And if the one tonight won’t, well, that doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t have an image of it yet that he can stick himself in alone. Can, or can’t. Either. Doesn’t matter.

Dean drifts all morning, poking his head in from time to time on Sam — "if you steal any of my shit, Sammy, I’ll fucking kill you” — or watching over Dad’s shoulder until he gets bored with it all and heads off to clean the guns, sharpen the knives. Sammy’s, too. It’d be stupid to leave some undone.

A knife, a pistol, and a shotgun are missing. Dean swears he doesn’t notice.

The morning drags on. Seems like he’s been the most efficient ever, or maybe time’s just slowed down without letting him know. Entirely possible, in his world. Probably not at Stanford. He thinks Sam’s packed and repacked three times over by now.

Lunch is the same as breakfast, simple and filling and the same as it’s been for years. You could almost think nothing’s changing.

But Dad and Sam haven’t snapped at each other once today, so you know there’s gotta be something wrong.

Dean’s volunteered to drive Sam to the bus station, and he can’t be ready soon enough. It’s not that he wants Sam to go. It’s that... fuck, it’s not anything, really. He just doesn’t want to live like this, breathe this tense and lying air, look at his family’s faces, silent, empty of anger — he can’t do it anymore. He needs this to be over, even if what comes after is a thousand times worse. He can’t just wait.

Sam’s supposed to catch his bus at two, and at ten till, he’s still shoving last-minute things into his bag. Dean stands in the doorway, jingling the keys impatiently. Forty-five more seconds, and it feels like he’s Dad’s age by the time Sam’s finally out the door.

Considering how silent the day’s been, it’s kinda dumb how much Sam chatters on the car ride. Stanford, Stanford, that’s all he can say, nothing but fucking Stanford. Does he think Dean cares? Stanford’s got nothing to do with him, and Sam knows it. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I’ll shut up.” About two minutes left in the car ride, two minutes before he walks off the map of Dean’s life.

“Don’t mind me, man,” says Dean. “Talk your head off.”

He’s not sure if he means it to sound sarcastic or not. Sam, apparently, thinks he doesn’t.

The bus’s doors are already closing when they pull up. “Shit!” yelps Sam and jumps out of the car, tugging his bag behind him — when did he get it down to one? He must’ve had at least two before.

The bus is starting to move, and Dean can’t help but crack up as Sam sprints after it, heavy bag thumping against his leg and making his run look more like a chicken’s than anything. Dean’s eyes are watering, it’s so funny, and he’s pounding his thigh and convulsing in laughter — and oh, the way Sam stumbles and nearly falls off the curb when the bus driver finally notices and stops for him, it’s so fucking _hilarious_ —

And then Sam’s in and the doors close and the bus pulls out, away, and disappears from sight.

Forehead against the steering wheel, still shaking with laughter, it takes Dean a couple minutes before he’s ready to drive again.

Back at the apartment, Dad’s still engrossed in his research. Dean heads for the table where all the weaponry’s laid out — might as well start packing, if they’re clearing out today.

On the table, a little apart from the rest, are one shotgun, one pistol, and one knife, yet to be cleaned or sharpened. Dean gets out his kit and sits down — after all, it’s stupid to leave some undone.

It’s only then that it hits him — Sammy’s gone.

And neither of them said goodbye.


End file.
